Understudy
by Yvi
Summary: Satine hasn't been making it to rehearsals and the Argentinean is irked. Mind the slash.


­Disclaimer: Not mine, Baz's. Like, duh.

Notes: For Norah, who is dear, and who requested a funny Christian/NA.

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He came into the room the conventional way this time, but the effect was no less dramatic. The keystone of a good actor, others would jabber in varying tones of envy and confidence, knowing how to make an entrance. It was the sickness that had made him master of that particular art, perversely. The way he saw it, he had enough anticlimactic exits to his credit that he figured he might as well try to compensate with his entrances. It normally carried through well enough. But this time, at the rate things were going, he would be lucky if he wasn't laughed offstage before his second appearance. Which would dispel the ever-present threat of collapsing into an insensible heap onstage, but was hardly desirable nonetheless.

"Where," he demanded, flinging the door open and stalking through it, brandishing a copy of the script, "has she gone?" 

The writer's head snapped up in alarm, as was the intended effect. "She's out with the Duke," he ventured after a few seconds, sounding like a schoolboy hoping he had given the correct answer  

"She's out with the Duke," the Argentinean repeated calmly. "What in God's name do you mean, she's out with the Duke?" 

Christian lifted a bewildered shoulder. "Exactly that. He's been wanting to take her to the opera for some time, and now that she's finally had a chance to tear herself away from rehearsal, they've gone."

"A chance to tear herself away from rehearsal, you said?" The same restrained, broken-record voice. "Tell me this, then. If she's been rehearsing so strenuously, why have I been practicing my lines opposite Garden Girl for the last two weeks?" He finished at a roar that practically rattled the windowpanes.

"Because she's a better stand-in than Chocolat?" the Doctor quipped, his voice floating down through the hole in the ceiling before the flustered writer could reply. The Argentinean looked disgusted, but lowered his own voice somewhat before speaking again. 

"Listen," he said, leaning on Christian's desk to meet his eyes. "This is serious."

"Of course it is," Christian answered in a placating tone usually utilized by trainers of wild animals. "And I don't like it any more than you do, but she does need to spend some time with him..."

"No. Not that. He's not the one cutting into her rehearsal time. Tell me, when will the sitar player finally have a chance to dance with the courtesan herself? I haven't, you know, and it does matter. Or will I simply wait until opening night and muddle my way through that scene as best I can? Or maybe Garden Girl should take on the role instead, we've grown so accustomed to one another."

"That won't be necessary," Christian quickly assured him. "That is, Satine won't be here for tonight's rehearsal, but tomorrow I'll see to it that you do the scene. We've been working on her part for some time now, and it should be perfect, really."

"Oh, is that what you've been doing?"

Christian's normally incandescent face dimmed considerably at that and for a moment the Argentinean almost regretted calling the writer out for monopolizing the star's "rehearsal time." Almost. "I may be missing some brilliant artistic innovation of yours," he continued ironically, "but I have no idea why you seem to think it effective for she and I to do our rehearsing apart, even for the scenes we have together. Maybe she's gotten some good coaching of it, but for me it's been difficult. I've tried rehearsing with Nini, but nothing ever comes of that, and Elénore loves playing the tragic heroine, so she doesn't mind at all, but it isn't the same. I would like nothing more than to practice opposite Satine, as idiotic as that notion may be, and which I cannot do at the moment anyway because," he paused to take a breath and spread his arms expansively, "she's out with the Duke."

It was a superb monologue, and he held the final pose for an extra moment or two before leveling his audience with a challenging gaze.

Christian had become very intent on studying the tip of his pen. "I hadn't given that as much thought as I should have, and I'm sorry. Tomorrow you two will be able to work together for as long as you like, but for tonight there's nothing to be done. I can't call off rehearsal altogether or Zidler will be breathing fire." 

The Argentinean snorted. "I used to eat fire for a living and I've memorized every scene save the dance." 

"What would you like me to do, then?" He sounded almost frustrated, as if it wasn't _his_ fault Satine had been too busy being in love to rehearse with her partner. The Argentinean wondered if he really believed the old adage, about all men being powerless before the pull of love. "Honest," the writer continued, sounding truly sorry this time, "I can't do a thing until then, but I'm quite open to any suggestions you might have."

_Stop complicating things by loving her._ The Argentinean chose not to supply the obvious answer and merely assumed a thoughtful expression. "I suggest you tell me what I'm to do tonight. We're scheduled to run through the final act in its entirety, and so Garden Girl will have to take her place in the chorus. It's going to be very strange trying to dance alone." 

"Well." Christian looked uneasy. "We could skip that part, you know, or, ah, have one of the extra girls go through it with you, even though none of them know it as well. Or, well...I suppose you could just practice on your own for a little longer."  

The Argentinean expelled a quick bark of a laugh. "Dance with myself, you mean? You may not have this term in England, but I've heard it said that it takes two to tango." 

"But this isn't the tango," Christian corrected helpfully.

"It's a metaphor for all forms of activity that cannot be carried out alone," he growled, sincerely hoping the writer had been attempting to make a joke. "Such as some sorts of dancing. If Satine was about, I would demonstrate." 

Christian seemed unsure of what to say to that. "You can't," he finally sighed, sounding rather embarrassed. "She's out with the Duke." 

"You're full of dazzling insights today, did you know?" the Argentinean muttered, hoping that had been another poor attempt at humor. "I think we've made that point clear."

Having the grace to look embarrassed, Christian began scrutinizing his pen again. "I don't know what else to say. I can't make any amends until tomorrow."

"Fine. I'll make due." Without further ado, he caught Christian around the waist and pulled him out of his seat. "You're the writer. Tell me what I'm doing wrong." Ignoring the strange noises his newly-made dance partner was making, the Argentinean began leading him through the steps around the cramped garret. 

"How is it so far?" he asked solicitously, effortlessly sidestepping a pile of notebooks. "Does this match what you've been teaching Satine?" He tightened his hold when Christian essayed to reach towards the door, causing the latter's face to turn the color of the windmill outside his window. "What, you wrote the scene; no need to be embarrassed."

Christian emitted a strangled squawk that begged to differ; the Argentinean grinned.

"Go on, tell me how I'm doing. I'd like my character to be just as richly portrayed as hers, and she's received so much of your expert coaching by now it's only fair I get mine. I'm not stopping until I've heard your opinion."

"It's supposed to be passionate, above all," Christian muttered, his voice rather higher than usual. He stumbled over a chair leg, caught his balance by grasping the Argentinean's arm, and blushed harder. "That is, it's the dance as an expression of love in it's highest, most profound form, where words fail and actions must take over."

The Argentinean made a show of pensively nodding. "Yes, I think I understand... and I could show that through something like this, maybe?" He slowly combed a hand through Christian's unruly hair and deliberately shifted until their faces were almost touching, suppressing a smile as the writer's eyes grew approximately three sizes. "No, don't move back," he admonished. "It's only an act, you know. Nothing onstage is real, and rehearsals are no different. Now go on." 

"I-I think you're doing fine, really," came the predictable reply. "No need to keep going at all. Besides, the next thing you're supposed to do is lift her off the ground and carry her stage right, and I doubt...ack!" The rest of the writer's advice was truncated by surprised yelp as he found himself suddenly lifted, turned, and deposited on the bed. He blinked in a moment of stunned silence before finishing, voice hushed and shakier than before, "...a-and then you kiss her and that's what ends that scene." He took in the Argentinean's amused expression and exhaled tremulously. "And by the way, this is insane."

"Now that you mention it, yes it is, but that's no fault of mine." The Argentinean shrugged and leaned back on his elbows. "The star is out flirting with the investor and I'm left here to seduce the writer. Very artistically, of course," he amended, when Christian tensed at his choice of words. "I wonder, does anyone else think things have become more insane than usual around here?"

They exchanged a glance and Christian began to sit up.

The Argentinean shrugged again. "Ah well, best finish the scene." And before Christian had a chance to react, he did.

As soon as he was able to regain control of his senses, Christian pulled back with an interesting noise that was half a shout and half a squeak. When the Doctor peered through the ceiling to see who was murdering the writer, the Argentinean threw a significant look at him. "We're busy." Deciding it was best not to ask questions, the older man retreated.

Once the Argentinean turned back to him, Christian had one hand pressed against his mouth and appeared to be awaiting death.

"You realize, don't you," the actor informed him obliviously, "that that was awful." Casually, he tapped Christian's hand aside. "Passionate, you said. Remember, none of it is real."

"Wait." Slightly wild-eyed, the writer lifted his free hand. "You remember, don't you, my first day here. I-I mean, there was absinthe and nobody was himself then, but you--"

"There are things about the stage you need to understand," the Argentinean broke in abruptly. "Truth from lies, what matters and what does not." When Christian opened his mouth to speak again, he quickly put a stop to it, drawing back when the writer flinched just long enough to murmur, "It isn't real," before resuming, not moving again until he felt one of Christian's hands creep up to cautiously clasp the back of his head.  It took two attempts before he managed to separate himself, the first failing when the suddenly less-reluctant hand refused to relinquish its hold on him. 

"Better, much better." One eyebrow was arched and he felt a small smile tugging at his lips. "But that I'm sure is not in the script, unless you've edited it further. 

The writer was obviously making a valiant attempt to appear composed. "It's almost time for rehearsal," he said slowly, untangling his fingers from the cloth of the Argentinean's shirt and blinking in bemusement as if the word rehearsal were something he had never heard before.  

The Argentinean got to his feet. "You see how difficult it can be, working opposite the wrong person? Good stand-ins are hard to come by."

"That time." Christian had gained some control of his voice again and seemed determined to speak of anything but the matter at hand. "'Nothing funny,' you said. What..."

The Argentinean cut him off, eyes narrowed to harsh onyx slits, snapping each word like a gunshot. "If you can't separate truth from fiction yourself, don't think people will always do it for you."

He made a suitably striking departure for once, striding away without bothering to look back at whatever expression Christian's face had assumed. As he left the room, he decided he really didn't want to know. There was plenty to think about without wondering if the message had reached its mark. Such as the fact that he had just kissed the writer and played out a scene without falling asleep; it was impossible to gauge which was more bizarre. Thinking of foolish things. Everyone had grown so skilled lately at thinking of foolish things, no reason why he should deviate_. Don't worry things will fall apart, just concentrate on things that don't matter, it's so much easier._

During rehearsal, Christian turned apologetic eyes on him and summoned Elénore out of line to stand in for Satine.

He fell asleep before the dance scene to the sound of Garden Girl's glassy laugh.


End file.
